Aces And Eights
by macred
Summary: Steed is caught in the fog
1. Chapter 1

16

**Aces and Eights**

R. Wilson

2-27-09

**Chapter One**

Purdey did a high kick catching Wofford under the chin. As he went down she spun delivering a roundhouse kick to Newhouse's abdomen. Gambit followed with a knockout punch to the man's jaw. Steed blocked a swing from Kingsley with his right and hit his man hard with his left fist. The man staggered and Steed followed with two powerful blows from his right. Kingsley went down and stayed down. Steed looked at his two companions, despite the bruise he could feel forming below his left eye, his smile telegraphed the satisfaction he felt at ending their latest assignment. He was about to suggest they all get a much needed drink when he saw Gambit's and Purdey's eyes widen, but not in time to avoid the surprise attack they were trying to warn him about. In the same instant he felt a sharp pain on the side of his head. He heard them shout his name and saw both begin to move toward him and then all went black.

Steed could hear the pounding in his head. In fact, it was all he could hear. Blood rushed passed his ears at an alarming rate only to bounce off his inner skull and take a stabbing plunge at the back of his eyes. He knew that opening them would be painful, but there was nothing else for it. He couldn't lay on the ground forever. Just for an instant he had to admit that it sounded tempting. No fighting, no shouting, no one trying to kill him, just peace and serenity. With a sigh of resignation, he sat up and opened his eyes, but the view that awaited him was not what he'd expected. For a moment he wondered how long he'd been laying there. The last thing he remembered he was involved in a fight under bright, sunny skies. Now he was surrounded by fog. Living in England, that was not an unusual phenomenon, but he'd never know it to roll in that fast. There was an unusual quality about this fog, as well, something he just couldn't pen down. Oh well, he thought, as he struggle to his feet, time to get moving. He needed to locate his colleagues and make sure Kingsley was taken into custody. He stood with only the slightest of groans, felt the side of his head where a nice lump had already formed. He was looking around for his bowler and brolly when he heard it.

"About time, I was starting to get board."

Steed turned, a little too quickly, for the blood seemed to slosh to the other side of his head sending the throb into renewed heights. There at the edge of the fog bank was a young woman. She wasn't part of the group he had tangled with, he was sure of that. She was small, perhaps a little over five feet, dark hair, the eyes were green, or brown, or both? The more he looked, the less he was sure. She seemed to be perched upon something he couldn't make out. Elbows on knees, head resting in the palms of her hands and staring directly at him. He wasn't sure what was going on. Was there someone, or more than one someone, hiding behind the fog, waiting for him to take the bait? He decided that tact, diplomacy and a little charm might be the wisest course until he could figure things out. "Heaven forbid," he told her, with his best smile.

The woman raised her chin from her hands, "Yes, well I don't know about that . . . yet," she said. "I've been working on that for years, but the ideals of those with decision making powers and my mouth seem to be fundamentally apposed. However, that's a conversation for a later date. How do you feel?"

Steed ran his hand through the short hair on the side of his head to smooth it down. "Never felt better," he said jauntily.

A small chuckle escaped from the woman. "You're a liar. Your head hurts and you feel like hell, but if you don't want my help then so be it."

"What did you have in mind?" Steed asked as he moved a bit closer to the figure. The woman hopped down from her perch and waved her hand to the right. Steed watched as a table and chairs appeared out of the fog. Resting upon the table was a decanter and two glasses. He wasn't too surprised. He'd seen parlor tricks before, even performed a few in his time.

"Brandy, Mr. Steed? I believe that is your usual method of medication in these instances." She poured, sat down at the table and downed one glass of the amber liquid like . . . well, like she'd been doing it for years.

"Aren't you a bit young for that?" Steed asked as he picked up the other glass. Up close she looked to be about fifteen.

"I'm older than I look," she explained, "so I try not to look too often."

"Where are Purdey and Gambit?" He tried to make the question as casual as possible.

"Yeah . . . well, we'll scrub round that for the moment."

He felt comfortable consuming the Brandy. He'd watched her pour from the single container and drink some herself. Of course that didn't mean that the Brandy couldn't have been poisoned or drugged. She could have taken an antidote prior, but he was willing to risk it. "Since you obviously know my name, am I permitted to know yours?"

"Call me Sam," she said.

"Short for Samantha?"

"No, just the right size."

"It's a little unusual given the circumstances don't you think?," he asked.

"Not from where I sit," she answered. "Now if you don't mind I'd like to get on with things."

"By all means. Purdey and Gambit?" The smile on Steed's face belied the steel in his gaze.

The woman seemed unaffected. "An amazing couple," she said thoughtfully, "a good sense of comedic timing, but an unfortunate tendency of picking up bad habits from their elders. Thankfully they're not my problem. To answer your question however, they are where ever you left them I would imagine. I'm not interested in all of your outside relationships, thank the world. I'm only concerned with one and I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible. I left a very good poker game for this meeting. You know, it never fails. As soon as I start winning they can't do without me." This last was said more to herself than to Steed.

"Sorry, I'm sure," Steed interjected, not understanding, nor caring about the ramblings of his capture. "Purdey and Gambit?" he reintroduced the topic of his interest.

"Mr. Steed, I know you . . ."

Steed interrupted. "Just Steed," he clarified.

Sam's eyes rolled. "My apologies," she told him with no sign of sincerity. "As I've said, I don't know where they are and frankly it's not my problem. I have enough trouble dealing with you."

Steed poured another Brandy. "That's not the first time I've heard that and I'd be delighted to sit and debate the matter, but where are Purdey and Gambit?" Sam jumped up from her seat, ran her fingers through her hair as though to pull it out by the roots and let out a groan. Steed watched as she circled the edge of the fog bank. She appeared to be mumbling to herself. Steed merely sipped his drink and watched wondering why no one else had shown themselves. He saw no weapons on the girl, there had been no threats, aside from asking if he'd like a drink, there had been no questions. He had time to wait. He hoped his friends had the same.

After controlling the frustration that threatened to boil over, Sam returned to try again. "Look, Steed, I know that you are a stub, er . . . persistent soul and under most circumstances it can be one of your better qualities. I also know that trusting someone you don't know, and sometimes those you do know, doesn't always come easily for you. However, I can tell you that bypassing your normal reticence this time will make things go a lot faster and will certainly make things easier for me."

"And just who are you?" Steed's curiosity finally got the better of him.

Sam reached into a pocket and pulled out a card. She held it up, turning it this way and that to catch a better light, although there was no greater light in one direction than another. She lowered the card, sighed and gave him a very unconvincing smile before beginning. "I am your guide through the mystic . . . oh, hell. I can't spout this drivel." She threw the card into the air discarding whatever was written on it.

Steed watched to see where it landed. If he could get a hold of it, perhaps it would shed some light on this situation. The card never came down. It must have gotten lost in the fog, he thought, or it was another party trick intended to impress him. Sam was rubbing her eyes as though a great pain had settled behind them. Steed could commiserate.

"They give us this stuff and expect us to smile and deliver it with a straight face as though it doesn't make us look like complete idiots." She sighed again a tired resigned sound and looked at him for the first time with sincerity. "I've never been much of a conformer, you see. I suppose that's why I've been stuck in this position so long instead of moving up to the next rung. My supervisor keeps telling me that it's my attitude, but I say by the time it's gotten to this point; diplomacy doesn't really come into it. I mean I tried it their way once and what happened? The man still went to the theater. I mean the play wasn't even that good," she stopped suddenly, "but I digress.

"Steed, I could go into detail and tell you that whenever a baby is born they are assigned someone like me."

"From the time they're born?" he asked. "That must be a rather daunting task." So it was a sleeper, he thought. He'd never heard of one going back that far, but in light of the situation in Paris six mouths ago, it wasn't out of the question. However, they had all been Russian; none had an American accent, but sleepers he could deal with.

"No, I'm not a sleeper."

That took him by surprise, but he gave no sign of it. "What? Never?" he joked.

"No, never."

The way she was looking at him gave him a slightly uncomfortable feeling. He quelled the feeling remembering that some of the events from their Paris case made the papers. It wasn't completely out of the question for someone to make the leap that he would be remembering.

"If we could get on. As I was saying, I don't want to go into a long drawn out explanation. You're not an unintelligent man, surely you can agree that individuals live and die by the choices they make throughout their lives."

Steed nodded. He knew better than most,

"Many things influence those choices. Everything from the family they are born into, the schools they attend, jobs they hold and people they come in contact with play a part in life's design." She walked to the table and picked up the glass she had drained earlier.

Steed reached for the Brandy to fill it for her, but saw that it was already filled. Now that _was_ a neat parlor trick, he thought. She began pacing as though considering what her next words should be.

"Under normal circumstances, an individual would not meet his or her, ah . . ."

"Guardian Angel?" he suggested. This ridiculous tale was becoming fun. Sooner or later the interrogation would begin. He'd been through sillier sessions than this and he had to admit that it had being tortured beat all to hell.

Sam turned around with a look on her face of one who knew she was being wound-up, but she took it in stride. "Having a good time, are we?"

"I've had worse," he answered honestly.

"Yes, I'm aware, but since you're having such a good time, let's move on. The term Guardian Angel isn't quite right and it's a bit old fashioned. We prefer Time Stream Managers or TSM for short. You now how bureaucracy goes, they have an abbreviation for everything." Sam's face took on a more serious tome. "While we're at it, let me just say that you have been a real pain in my . . . well, the back of my front for as long as I can remember. From the time you made that bet with your childhood friend, what was his name? Dobbin wasn't it?" She didn't wait for his reply. "Bet him you could swing across that pond at your Aunt . . . God, even I can't keep track of those."

"As I recall, I won that bet," he stated. Whoever had done her research certainly had been thorough.

"You broke your collar bone! By the way, I lost five bucks on that one. Of course that's minor compared to your adult life. Let's see, you've been run over, shot, stabbed, blown up, beaten, poisoned, switched bodies," her eyes jerked back to him, "that was a neat one, by the way, all culminating in your last episode, being shot in the arm. Paris wasn't it?"

That uncomfortable feeling was beginning to deepen. An agent in the field as long as he had been would encounter many, if not most, of the instances she mentioned, but the body swapping case was still highly classified. That is, on the British side. It was possible that Sam had just given him information about which group he was dealing with. "I would be less than a gentleman to disagree with a lady."

"You'd also be lying, again."

Steed drained his glass and stood. Whatever was going to happen, he needed to get it out in the open. "As much as I'm enjoying this trip down memory lane, I think it's time I was going."

Sam sat back in her chair with a big smile. She actually chuckled. "You really are a funny fellow," she said, but made no move to stop him. "You've actually hit the nail on the head. This **is** a trip down memory lane, in a way."

"What way would that be?" he asked. He made his way to the edge of the fog and although he saw no one emerge, he braced himself for the attack he was sure would come. He took one last look at the woman. She was simply sitting there smiling at him. "No reply? I'm disappointed. I thought you had all the answers."

She spoke only two words, but they were enough. "Emma Peel."

Steed knew the surprise showed on his face. That was the last thing he expected to hear and definitely the last thing he wanted to talk about. With only a minor pause he slipped into the fog. Again the oddness of the phenomenon struck him. With Sam he could see a good twenty feet, but now he had to hold his hand up to within an inch of his face to see anything. There was no sound. No traffic, birds, wind, no sounds of someone pursuing. Complete silence. He moved slowly, unsure of his surroundings or foot holds. It was possible he was standing on a cliff and simply couldn't see it. Why had she mentioned Emma, he wondered? It had been ten years since he'd seen her, outside of the society pages that is, and more than six months since he'd spoken with her. He remembered the call he'd made to her prior to his trip to France. He'd used the strange case developing there as an excuse. He'd thought of calling her many times, but never worked up enough nerve to go through with it. When he finally had, everything he had feared came true. Oh, they had conversed on friendly terms, but something didn't feel right. Just hearing her voice brought back a pain that he thought he'd put behind him. The result was a stilted conversation, rather like someone you knew once-upon-a-time that you run into accidentally. Neither knows quite what to say so you leave as soon as possible regretting having spoken at all. Still, he had hoped that he'd opened a door, but she never tried to contact him after that. He took a few more steps and was surprised when he stepped out into a clearing for sitting right there at the same table, now reading a racing form as calm as could be, was Sam.

"Ready to talk?" she asked. "You know, if I win this hand I might put money on this horse "Emma's Pride". What do you think?"

Steed stepped back into the fog. Must have traveled in a circle, he thought. He'd be more conscious of that this time. He set off again. Instead of turning back, he turned right. He wished he had his umbrella with him. There was a small compass built into the handle and it would certainly come in handy now. His mind wondered once again. He knew that events from the passed could come back and haunt you with a vengeance. Could that be it? Could Sam, and whomever she's associated with, be looking for Emma? Could she be in danger? That didn't make sense. It wouldn't be that difficult to locate her, so why the elaborate charade? No, it didn't add up. He had no idea how long he walked. It had to be quite a distance this time, yet again; he took one more step and emerged into a clearing. This time the insufferable Sam was holding three playing cards in her hand that he couldn't see. She looked up at him.

"Let me know when you get tired."

Steed decided to try a new tactic. He took four steps backward, turned left and took two steps forward. He emerged once again in the clearing with Sam. She didn't bother to look up this time. He tried several other directions, but the result was the same. He didn't know how they were doing it, but it was obvious there was no way out at this point. He sat down and poured himself a drink. "What's this all about?" he asked.

"As I was saying, I'm your TSM and I'm afraid your time stream has gotten so far off track that it became necessary to meet. It's my responsibility to try and show you the error of your ways."

"That could take some time, but what does Mrs. Peel have to do with it?" he asked, although he was quite sure she would explain even if he hadn't.

"That's when your time stream shot off somewhere into the nether land, the day you abandoned Emma Peel."

Steed set his glass down with a little more force that he had intended. "I beg your pardon?" He felt heat rising under his collar. "If you know so much about me then you know that isn't true."

Sam looked at him with surprise. "Really?"

"Yes," he stated, plainly and simply.

"Well I'm always willing to listen, up to a point. If you didn't leave her flapping in the breeze, what would you call it?"

It was time to try a diversion. "All right," he started, "assuming I buy this hoax. If you're truly who you say you are, why would my, . . . um, TSM be an American and why a girl of, what age?"

"Yeah, about that. I have to admit that I was hoping for something along the lines of a Raquel Welch. I thought it might have more impact on you, but unfortunately the higher echelons have a sense of humor and you have to take what you can get. AS for the nationality, I am American or I was. Now can we return to Emma Peel?"

The pounding behind his eyes intensified and he rubbed at them to try and clear his mind. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. He didn't even want to remember that day let a lone revisit it. So why not say nothing at all? There was no reason he had to answer questions.

"You're right, you don't have to answer any questions, but it would make things more pleasant." She slid a small bottle across the table.

Damn, he thought. How was she doing that and where did the bottle of Aspirin come from. He pushed the bottle back not prepared to trust the pills inside.

Sam rolled her eyes again. "Suit yourself," she said. "Now, you were saying? Excuse me, I mean, you were thinking?"

What the hell, he thought. Let's just get this over with. "Mrs. Peel left of her own volition. Her husband had just been found alive after two years in the jungle. She was smiling. She was happy. It's what she wanted." He almost spit the last words. His anger spilled over before he realized. He took another swallow of the Brandy and let its warmth sooth the rough edges. It was a moment before he could speak again, but his voice was low, sad, "It was as though those two years hadn't existed. She went back . . . back to her life . . . without a second glance." When he could, he raised his eyes to her, resolve set in the gray shades.

"Is that it?" Sam asked patiently.

"That's enough, isn't it?" Steed challenged.

"Perhaps, but let's just examine the facts for a moment. You knew Emma Peel for most of the two years prior to her husband's return, true?" He nodded. "Your relationship was a very close one, again true?"

"We were . . . close friends."

Sam's smile broadened. "Yeeess, I just love euphemisms. Being so close I assume that you were familiar with her various moods. You knew when she was happy? You'd seen how she acted, how she looked?"

Yes, he was aware. When Emma was happy her face would light up brighter than the sun. A thousand stars shown in her eyes, her smile warmed his soul like a forest fire and her laughter was a chorus of angels singing . . . and . . . and she was . . . gone. "What's your point?" he asked.

"My point is that I don't think you were seeing things as they were."

Steed watched as she waved her hand and suddenly the scene came alive before him. Everything was just as it had been all those yeas ago. His old flat at Stable Mews, he saw himself reading the paper that had announced Peter Peel's miraculous recovery and return to England with the words, `Wife Emma Waits'. He felt the tightening of his stomach just as he had that day. He saw the pained expression on the face of his `then' self and didn't need a mirror to know that his `current' self reflected the same. He was so caught up in the spectacle that he didn't stop to wonder how this was being done.

He watched as Emma entered and felt his heart drop. He didn't want to watch, didn't want to hear the words again. "I think I heard all I need to," he said, but he was powerless to stop it, just as he had been then. "_You've seen the papers,"_ he heard her say, and his head swam. _"Yes."_ There was no sound after that. The blood in his head was rushing so fast that it drowned out everything else. He didn't need to hear. Those words were indelibly itched on his memory, but he couldn't take his eyes off of Emma. She was so beautiful. He watched as the scene played on, as she stopped, barely any space between them, as she leaned in to kiss him good-bye. He could still feel her warm lips on his cheek. He stopped his hand from rising to the spot. She moved to leave. He called to her and she turned. He knew what he had done, what he had said. He called her, not Mrs. Peel, as he always had before, but Emma. And then, he had uttered the most inane thing in the world, "_Thanks_." That was it. That was all he could say. The last time he would ever see her, the last time he would speak with her, the last time for everything and all he could say was, "Thanks."! He blinked as he noticed that the scene had frozen on Emma's smile just before she walked out the door.

"What do you see?" Sam was asking.

The darkest day of my life, he wanted to say, but he couldn't. "Mrs. Peel," was all he could get out.

"Yes," Sam agreed, "it **was** a dark day wasn't it?"

Steed's eyes darted to this strange person. The furrow on his forehead deepened.

"Is that all that you see?"

He examined the image again. What was it he was supposed to see? What was the answer to this dammed game that he just wanted to end? "I see the entrance to what used to be my apartment," he finally told her.

Sam sighed deeply and shook her head. She waved her hand and the images started moving again. He watched Emma climb into the passenger seat of Peter Peel's vehicle, watched Peter get in on the other side and start off down the street. Emma stared back at him just as she had long ago. Once again the scene stopped. This time before Emma completely disappeared form view. When he could tare his eyes from the image he looked over at Sam who was obviously preoccupied.

"I'll see your raise and bump you twenty," he heard her say under her breath. He cleared his throat.

"Oh right." She glanced at the scene and back to him. "Now what do you see?" Sam asked again.

Steed had really tired of this painful journey. "Why don't you just tell me what I'm supposed to be looking at and put an end to this," he said rubbing at his temples. He was really tempted by that aspirin at this point.

"Sometimes I really despair of people. That's why I find this job to be a real pain most of the time," she said. "None-the-less, we'll press on if you don't mind. Churchill had a pair of queens showing and I don't trust him. He uses that cigar smoke as camouflage to hide a multitude of sins, I think. The man has the luck of the Irish, he really does, but I think I've finally got him this time."

"I thought gambling _was _a sin," Steed said still staring at the frozen image of Emma Peel.

"Let's don't get carried away," Sam responded. "But, back to the subject. As I said before, you knew Emma Peel very well during the time you were together and yet you see nothing unusual in this image." The view changed back to Emma's smiling good-by. "Do you see the sparkle in her eyes?" she asked him.

"Yes, as I said, she was happy. Why are you dwelling on this?" His frustration level was exceeding its limit.

Sam threw her head back and actually groaned. "Perhaps we can go at this from a different angle. It really would be better if you saw these things for yourself. During this time that you worked together, you had an old car that was in various stages of refurbishing, correct?" She didn't wait for an answer. "At one point the paint was dull, faded and suffering from oxidation, but what happened when it rained?"

"It got wet," he sighed. She simply looked at him obviously expecting more. He thought back, pictured the Bentley. "It looked as though the color deepened, it shown, it spar . . . " He looked at Emma again. Her eyes sparkled. Were there unshed tears? "So what," he challenged. "It was a sad time. We **had** been good friends, you know. Saying good-bye is never easy."

"But just a few minutes ago you said she **was** happy."

"She was happy to be returning to her husband." He clarified.

"Was she?"

Steed stood and paced the small confines of the clearing. He couldn't bring himself to look at the image any more. Something strange was going on inside his stomach. He was beginning to feel nauseous. He looked at Sam but she seemed distracted by something only she could see.

"Damn! Patton's got three deuces. It'd be just like him to have another stuck in those ham sized hands of his." She saw him watching, shook herself and came back to the point. "Here we have a woman that hadn't seen her husband, the man she was supposed to be in love with, in two years, but instead of looking at him, instead of focusing on the love of her life and dreaming of the future, she spends every last moment looking back at another man until he's completely out of sight. Why do you think she did that? What do you think she was hoping to see?"

"She . . . he was . . ." he fumbled. The image changed again to Emma's last ride down Stable Mews. "She didn't say . . ."

"What?" Sam pressed, "What was she supposed to say? Steed I don't want to go. Help me. I'm not sure this is a good thing. Do you love me? Do you care enough about our relationship to not let it die? Can you give me something to hang onto, some reason to stop this?"

"Emma didn't need a reason," he fired back. "She was one of the strongest woman I've ever met. If she didn't want to do something, she didn't need someone else to tell her not to."

"Physically strong, yes. Mentally strong, granted, but emotionally, not so. For instance, she never told you how much your openly flirting with other women hurt. She made jokes, teased you about it."

Steed looked at Sam and nodded his head as if to agree and therefore provide proof of his point and then stopped, confused about which point he was confirming.

"You never thought to consider that it might have been a defense mechanism? You know, the same way you change the subject whenever someone brings up her name. Think about it. Here was a young woman who had just lost her husband. She meets a man who tries everything he can to charm her, to seduce her into his mixed up world. She succumbs, makes the change and finds that he not only supports her interests, although he may not always understand them, but encourages her to be everything that she can be. He trusts her, relies on her, shares his life with her. And then at the height of this new found happiness, she's suddenly jerked back in time by a string everyone, including her our government, told her was cut a long time ago. So what happens? She turns to the man that had become the most important person in her life only to find him ordering a replacement with no more concern that when he's ordering a new suit."

Steed stopped in his tracts as the scene of him speaking to Mother, telling him he would need a replacement, flashed into life. "Emma wasn't present for that conversation," he stated.

"She didn't have to be. She had remarkable hearing."

The documentary suddenly changed angle and Steed watched as Emma paused, her hand in mid knock outside the door of his flat. She appeared to be listening. He saw her slowly and gently place her hand against the door. She rested her head on her hand. Her eyes were closed and after a moment she drew a deep breath, straightened and pushed the door open.

Steed sank into the chair holding his head in his hands. "I didn't know. When Mother called I . . . I was caught off guard . . . I didn't . . . I couldn't . . ."

"You couldn't lower your pride long enough to tell him that your world had just shattered. So you did what you always do. You made him, and consequently her, believe that it was no big deal. Just the cost of doing business."

Silence.

"She stayed with Peter," was all he could think to say after he found his voice.

"Yes. To divorce him wouldn't have been right. There was no reason, no one to object, so she decided to see if they could recapture what they had once had. You know now that it didn't work. They were simply two different people by then."

Steed poured another Brandy and watched the amber liquid swirl in the glass. "As we are now," he finally said.

Sam chuckled. "You're forgetting the Time Stream. No," she told him, "you're exactly who you were then. A few more experiences under your belt, perhaps, but for the most part, the same. And so is she. You see, she came into herself back then. The person that married Peter Peel was not the person she was destined to become. You helped her with that. You freed her, let her soar. Unfortunately, you also let her fly away."

"But I . . ."

". . . phoned her six months ago," she finished for him. "Yes, I know and I had high hopes for that, but there's one more thing that's the same as it was back then. You're both just as stubborn. You both have a miss guided idea that the past should remain in the past, but neither one of you lived up to that idea. You have never been able to forget about her and she should have left Peter in the past. Of course if she had, you wouldn't be getting this visit from my incomparable self."

Steed was about to say something, but Sam suddenly jumped out of her chair. "Ha! I've got you now, Churchill," she shouted. "I call."

Steed was tired. In fact, he'd never felt so tired in his life. "So what am I supposed to do now?" he asked. Sam was still looking off into the distance somewhere. "Excuse me?" No response. "Hello?"

"Oh, sorry. Things are coming to a head and it's time for me to leave. That means its time for you to get back to where you belong," she said.

"Just like that?" he asked. "Wham, bam, thank you Sam?"

"You still love her, don't you?" Again, she didn't wait for his answer. "Then you know what you have to do."

As he watched, she began to fade into the fog or maybe it was engulfing her, he didn't know.

"Stop listening to your head and just do what your heart tells you. You'll be fine."

"Wait! What cards are you holding?" he asked. He didn't know why, but it seemed important.

"Why, aces over eights," she told him.

"That's a dead man's hand," he said.

"Exactly," she replied with a wink. "Don't forget, Steed. Steed? Steed?


	2. Chapter 2

14

**Chapter Two**

"Steed? Steed, it's time to wake up now."

He heard the voice, but it seemed different from Sam's. Why was it dark? He opened his eyes, but the face before him wasn't Sam's. "Purdey," he said, but it came out as a whisper.

A smile lit her face. "Well it's about time," she said. "We were starting to worry about you."

Steed saw Gambit standing on the other side of the bed.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"In hospital," Purdey told him. "You took quiet a hit. We couldn't wake you up."

"I wasn't worried." Gambit added. "I told them you had the hardest head in the department. It would take more than that to put you under, but you know how doctors are."

Steed let Mike's comment slide, but made a mental note to get even later. "How long?" he asked.

"Long enough for me to shoot Gambit down three times," she laughed. Now that Steed had regained consciousness she could breathe easier.

"Oh, not long at all then," Steed quipped.

"About an hour," she told him.

"Only an hour?" It seemed much longer than that, he thought. "And you were here, with me the whole time?"

"Yes, Steed, I never left your side. Why? Is there something wrong?" Purdey was beginning to get concerned. Had that blow done more than knock him out? She glanced at Gambit and he was watching Steed just as closely.

Steed swung his feet over the side of the bed, unobtrusively grabbing the mattress as the room began to swim. "No, there's nothing wrong," he explained, "I just like being watched over by beautiful women. Now I think it's time . . ."

"That you got back in that bed," a voice from the door interrupted.

Purdey made the introductions. "Steed, this is Doctor Kirkland. Doctor, this is your patient John Steed, who, if history tells us anything, probably won't listen to anything you have to say."

The doctor looked at his chart. "Good afternoon, Mr. Steed. I'm glad you could join us. As you may have gathered for yourself, you suffered a blow to the head which left you with a lump that will be tender for a few days, accompanying that was an unusual period of unconsciousness. Your x-rays are clear and all tests have come back negative. My normal advice would be to keep you here for observation; however, several of my associates have dealt with you in the past so I'm not going to waist my breath." He turned to leave, "Aspirin for the headache, ice for the black eye, not that it will do that much good at this late stage, but it sounds like something I should say." With that, he walked out leaving all three agents to stare after him.

"My kind of fellow," Steed said as he buttoned his shirt, straightened his tie and retrieved his coat. "What say I get cleaned up and we all meet later for an early dinner, my treat?"

"That sounds lovely, Steed, but are you sure you're up to it?" Purdey asked.

Steed cupped her gently under the chin, "I'm fine, Purdey, really."

She was looking very deeply into his eyes. She could swear there was something there, but couldn't put her finger on it.

Gambit broke what was quickly becoming an uncomfortable silence. "About seven then," he asked.

"Seven it is," Steed said, "I'll meet you at the house."

***********

"Steed?" Purdey called out as she and Gambit entered his home. They were a little early, but she knew Steed wouldn't mind. She saw him pop his head around the corner from the second floor. He was still in shirt sleeves.

"Help yourself to a drink, won't be a moment."

Gambit didn't mind, it gave him a chance to continue trying to convince Purdey of his latest scheme. "Come on, Purdey. Me, you, a few bottles of wine in the middle of a field of daisies, how much better could it be?"

"The answer to that question, Mike Gambit, is something you'll never know."

Gambit wasn't ready to give up just yet. As he approached the drinks tray he spotted a deck of cards. "Alright, we'll let providence decide," he said as he began to shuffle. "One hand, five card draw, if I win you go on the picnic, if you win, well . . ."

"You come over and help me paint my flat," she finished.

"Agreed." He sat in the chair across from her and dealt out two cards each face down and three each face up. As he looked at Purdey's he felt pretty good. She had a pair of eights showing, and he had one king. He looked at the cards in his hand and smiled. He had another king and two fives. Two pair, he had her. "How many cards would you like?" he asked.

"Two," she said, "how about you?"

"I'll play these," he said with a sly smile. He dealt. "Okay, what have you got?"

"You first," she said.

"Read them and weep," Gambit announced. "Two pair, kings over fives." He watched as Purdey's face fell. "I guess I'll start chilling that champagne."

"Mike Gambit, you're a dead man," Purdey told him. She was vaguely aware of Steed standing in the doorway adjusting his tie. Gambit watched as the smile spread across her face. He knew she was about to do something. She laid down her cards. "Aces over eights," she panned. "Dead man's hand."

"What?" Steed broke in. "What did you say?"

"I was just telling Gambit that he loses again."

Steed walked over to the table and picked up Purdey's cards. He stood there staring at them as though they were something he hadn't seen before.

Purdey glanced at Gambit who shrugged his shoulders. "Steed, are you sure you're up to dinner tonight?" she asked. "We can always do it some other time." There was no reply. She reached out and touched his arm. "Steed?"

"Huh?"

"Are you okay?"

His gaze finally shifted to her and his eyes seemed to focus. "I'm fine," he told her. He dropped the cards on the table. "Shall we?" he asked moving toward the door.

The drive in was uneventful. They passed the time discussing work and Purdey's upcoming redecoration. Traffic picked up as they got closer to the city. Purdey was still apprehensive about Steed's health and that didn't change as she felt the car gaining speed. She turned away from Gambit in the backseat and noticed that Steed seemed to be trying to catch up to the car ahead. She didn't see anything out of the ordinary. It was a black sedan, two passengers as well as the driver. She looked at Steed. He was leaning slightly forward, squinting just a little. Rationalizing that he'd only do that if he were trying to make something out, she glanced at the car again. Steed's headlights were illuminating the license plate. MI ll88, it read.

"Would you look at that," Steed said.

Gambit moved forward and looked between them. "Three ones and two eights, you're contagious, Purdey."

"Do you believe in omens, Steed?" Purdey asked jokingly.

"Only the one that says we are going to have a lovely, relaxing dinner," he told her, but the coincidence was beginning to give him that same uncomfortable feeling he'd had while in the fog. He told himself it had all been a dream, but still . . . he shook it off. He couldn't afford to think about that now. Emma was someone he'd put behind him a long time ago. It hadn't been easy, but he managed. Now he only thought about her . . . every day, his mind said. Shut up, he told it.

"Anyway, that first one's not a one. It's a capital aye," she said.

Gambit and Purdey were still laughing about their card game when Steed was forced to stop at a traffic light. He looked around at the other vehicles waiting their turn when his eyes caught sight of a lorry to his right waiting to turn. Written in large letters on the side were the words, "Love Peel". He closed his eyes to clear his vision. Surely he'd miss read the message. This was getting silly, he thought. When he opened them again, the lorry began its turn passing through his headlights and he could see that some words were faded. What it actually said was, "Love The Peel, It's Where The Vitamins Are". There was a badly faded picture of an apple underneath. He let out the breath he'd been holding and almost laughed out loud. Although he dismissed the abundant reminders of his dream, he could feel the heat rising under his collar.

As he parked the car just down the street from the entrance to the restaurant he noticed a newsstand on the opposite corner. A strange sense of curiosity overtook him. Gambit and Purdey watched as he went to the stand. He came back and spread the evening paper on the bonnet of the Jaguar. Under the streetlight he turned to the sports news. His companions saw him run his finger down the list of winning horse races. Steed was an avid horseman, even raised his own so it didn't seem that unusual. To be preoccupied just before going into dinner seemed a bit odd, the man was entitled to his eccentricities. His finger stopped at one of the names and Purdey heard him mumble something she couldn't make out. She leaned in to get a better look. The notice read, `Emma's Pride won in the fourth and paid ten to one'. Steed closed the paper tossed it on the backseat without explanation.

They were seated with all the fanfare and flourish of long time customers. Steed ordered a bottle of champagne and they settled down to look at their menus. With the order placed and the champagne cooling and relaxing Steed's concerns he turned to listen to Purdey musing about the color scheme of the restaurant. He was beginning to think that this redecoration of hers was going to be more complicated than either he or Gambit realized and he was glad that he wasn't on the receiving end of that card game. He was just getting into the swing of the evening and succeeding in pushing his demons back into their respective closets when he heard a man at another table call out.

"Emma!"

His head jerked in the man's direction so fast that his companions thought he'd been hit. His eyes searched the people until he saw the other man stand and greet a woman coming toward him. He kissed her on the cheek and held her chair. Not my Emma, Steed said to himself. His mind seemed to stop in place. _My_ Emma, it repeated. She's not _my_ Emma. She never was. His heart was beating very fast and he realized his mind and body were trying to tell him something his heart wouldn't let him admit. He had wanted it to be _his _Emma. But he'd been incapable of acknowledging his feelings. Now whether it had been a dream or something he couldn't explain Sam was right. He did love her, had always loved her. Ten years ago he thought he had all the time in the world, until it ran out. She belonged to someone else. There was nothing he could've done, or so he'd thought. Of course he'd run the questions through his mind. What if he'd said something then, what if he'd asked her to stay, what if . . . He'd made himself sick with the `what ifs'. When he heard she was free again, he waited to see if he would hear from her. When he didn't he assumed she had figured exactly what he did, that they were a thing of the past. It had been fun, but it was over. His pathetic call to her had only served to confirm the diagnosis. There had been no return response. He'd closed and locked the door forever. So why all of a sudden was he being bombarded with thoughts and memories? "There's no point in it."

"No point in what?" he heard Purdey ask.

He looked up at the faces of his friends. Both were looking to him for some kind of answer. "I beg you pardon," he said.

"You said there was no point in it. What did you mean?"

Steed looked at Gambit, young, strong, loyal and devoted to the department, Purdey, beautiful, intelligent, just as loyal and just as devoted. He wondered if they realized the type of relationship they had. So reminiscent of another couple, their word play, furtive glances, the unspoken communication built on top of a deep respect and . . . well, he was never quite sure how they felt about each other, but isn't that what people used to say about he and Emma? Perhaps they'd be lucky, or brave enough to figure it out before fate came along to destroy their world, before time ran out. There was that word again. Time. He looked at his watch and back at the two. "I'm sorry," he told them, "but I've got to go. He stood and headed for the door.

Purdey chased after him catching up just outside. "Steed," she took his arm going to try and talk him into returning, but she saw the look in his eyes. She still couldn't decipher it, but knew she wouldn't talk him out of whatever he felt he had to do. "Something's not quite right, is it?" she asked.

"No," he answered simply.

"It hasn't been for some time, has it?"

Steed touched her cheek. "What a wonderfully intuitive girl you are, Purdey. You're right, it hasn't."

"Is there anything I can do?"

He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. "Wish me luck?" he said.

"You've never needed luck. You're Steed," she said. She stayed long enough to watched him drive away.

Steed parked on the street in front of the fifteen story building. It had been a long time since he'd been here. As he looked the place over, he noticed a light on the fourteenth floor. Maybe his luck _was_ holding out. He started up the front steps that led to the lobby wondering what he was going to say to the night guard. He entered the door expecting the watchman to ask if he needed assistance, but there was no one there. Umm, the stars must be with me, he thought and an image of Sam, sitting behind the desk, feet propped up, eating from a Chinese take-away waved a pair of chopsticks telling him to get to the lift, appeared to him. He blinked and she was gone, but he still looked under the desk just to make sure. He stepped on the lift and pushed 14.

The doors opened and he turned right, but as he walked down the hall he could see that things had changed. The layout wasn't exactly as he remembered and he didn't recognize the names on any of the office doors. Perhaps the office wasn't this way any more or maybe it's not even on this floor. He turned, what he remembered as being, the last corner and was rewarded with a name plate he finally knew and there was a light coming from under the door. With a deep breath of determination, he opened the it. The outer office had changed somewhat, but still reflected warm tones and plush, soft furnishings. The woman behind the desk looked up, a bit surprised to see a stranger inter. She was, perhaps in her early thirties, brunette, with a no nonsense look on her face. She immediately pushed one of the many buttons on her desk.

"Mr. Parker, we have an unannounced visitor in Miss. Knight's office," she stated.

"That won't be necessary, Miss.," he glanced at the name plate on her desk, "Turner, I can assure you." He gave her his best smile. "I mean no harm, I'd just like to see Mrs. . . err. . . Miss. Knight."

She put down the pen she was using, folded her hands on the desk and looked straight through his smile. "Believe it or not, sir that's not the first time I've heard that. Most people that come through that door wish to see Miss. Knight; however, they generally make an appointment."

Steed leaned on the desk. "But I'm not most people," he told her.

She waved his comment off. "That's as may be," she said, "but at any rate, Miss. Knight has left for the evening." She went back to her work.

"Left for where? Did she go home?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't give out that information,"

Steed straightened and paced back and forth for a few steps. He hated to use it, but it seemed like his best option at this point. Of course, he knew if it were reported he'd have to take the heat, but it was worth it, he reasoned. "I'm afraid you can," he said. He pulled out his Ministry identification and showed it to the woman. "Knight Industries maintains several government contracts and it is imperative that I speak with Miss. Knight as soon as possible."

Miss. Turner examined the card thoroughly, especially noting the name, `John Steed'. _Steed_, that rang a bell somewhere in the back of her mind, but she couldn't recall why. Was it something her boss had mentioned not so long ago? She wasn't certain. There was no denying the identification, however. She pulled out a note pad. "Miss. Knight is at a party this evening at the home of Frances March. It's something of a celebration," she explained holding out the paper with the address to him.

Steed's confidence wavered slightly. "Celebration?" he queried.

"The partnership of Knight Industries with March Electronics. They just agreed on a merger, that's why I'm still here. I was typing them up for her signature. The party is for the investors of March, a chance for them to meet the CEO and board of the new controlling interest."

Steed hoped that the momentary panic he felt didn't show on his face. "I see, thank you," he told her and walked out. Back in his car he looked at the address she had given him and grinned. This was good, he mussed. The location of the party was not very far from his own residence. He'd have time to change.

Steed stopped his Jaguar outside the gates of the March estate. It was a grand property and he could see the valets greeting and parking cars for the guests. Considering that he was crashing the party, he didn't think that a frontal entrance was a good idea. Getting thrown out, or rather, causing a scene while someone **tried** to throw him out wouldn't do. He needed to find Emma with as little commotion as possible. After all, he had no idea how she would react to seeing him again, let alone showing up with no notice. He parked the car on the street and slipped through the gate making his way around the grounds to the side entrance. It was a nice evening and he reasoned that the garden would be open to guests. Just as he had suspected, the garden was lit only for decorative purposes, not enough light to make his approach noticeable. He lingered on the patio close enough to the doors to slip inside behind a couple more interested in themselves than anyone tagging along.

In his best tux he fit right in with the other guests and relieved a waiter of a glass of champagne as he walked by with a tray. It wasn't the best quality, but it would do to add to his cover. His eyes searched the crowd. There were quite a few people at the party and it was difficult to see around everyone. He stayed on the edge picking up a few Hors Devours when they were passed and agreeing when occasionally addressed with, `nice party'. When the orchestra began to play the crowd thinned a bit as couples took the floor to dance. It was then he saw her and his heart stopped. She was still so beautiful. Dressed in a white, silk dress that swept the floor, her hair cascaded softly down her shoulders accented to almost red against the brilliant white, she was smiling. Steed suddenly felt butterflies in his stomach and he chastised himself. Confidence with women was not something he had ever lacked, but this was no ordinary woman and the magnitude of what he was about to do struck him like lightening from the sky.

He looked out at the dancers as he drained the last of the champagne from his glass and then almost choked on it. For there, on the dance floor, in front of everyone, he saw Sam and damned if she wasn't dancing with Winston Churchill! He scanned the guests, but no one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. When he looked back, they were gone and so were his butterflies. A waiter walked by and accepted his empty glass. That was when it all came together. He looked up at Emma and saw that her glass was empty. He caught up with a waiter that had a full tray of charged glasses. "I'll take that if you don't mind," he said. The young man started to protest, but looked at the size of the tip Steed held out.

"As you wish, sir," he said and disappeared without a second glance.

Steed skirted the guests, never taking his eyes off of Emma as he made his approach. She was lost in conversation with a man about five feet nine with gray hair and a partial beard. Probably March, he thought. As Steed got closer, the man was distracted by another couple and he found his opportunity. He walked up to her side and held out the tray. "More champagne?" he asked.

Emma placed her empty glass on the tray and took a full one. She didn't even give him a glance. "Thank you," she said.

Steed stepped around to face her. "You're quite welcome," he said, "but it's a bit of an inferior vintage, I'm afraid." She stopped with the glass raised halfway to her lips and he saw a light come on in her eyes. God, how he hoped it was because she was glad to see him and not just surprise.

"Steed," she said, "what in the world . . ." Recovering from her shock, she leaned over to kiss his cheek almost upsetting the tray he was holding.

He felt his knees weaken at her touch. The jangling of the glasses must have caught the attention of the host for he approached the two.

"That will do, waiter," he said sternly, "you're here to serve the guests not irritate them and Mrs. Parker's glass is empty.

Steed didn't even look at him, but handed the tray over. "Here," he said, "give her these, they aught to keep her busy for awhile."

March's face turned crimson, but one look at Emma's face as she continued to gaze at the man told him that discretion was the better part of valor. He took the tray and handed it over to the fellow Steed had originally taken it from before returning to his other guests.

"What are you doing here?" Emma asked.

Steed broke their eye contact and looked around the room. "We need to talk," he told her and took her hand leading her to the closest door he could find.

"Steed," she protested as she grabbed her dress to keep from getting her feet tangled up in it. "Wait, what are you . . . ?" she drew silent as they emerged into a hallway occupied by several party going couples. She simply shot them an apologetic smile as Steed rushed her down the hall.

He opened a door and stepped inside what appeared to be a study. As he closed and locked the door behind them he took Emma by the arms and turned her to face him. "Emma," he said and froze. What was he going to say to her? His mind raced with possibilities, but nothing came out.

She was staring at him with curiosity now. She could see the evidence of a bruise under one eye. "Steed, what is it? Is something wrong?"

And he found his voice. It all came rushing out. "Yes," he said. "And it's been wrong for years. Emma, I love you. I have always loved you. I should have told you so ten years ago, but I didn't feel I had a right. My world fell apart when you left. I need you in my life as I've had you in my heart. I know it's been a long time, but please say we can start over, get to know each other again." He waited. The expression on her face was incomprehensible. Not one single sign to guide him as to her reaction. Why should she give you another chance, his mind asked. She's been through a lot, the loss of her husband, the shock of his sudden return two years later. Your disappointing and hurting her, it added. You're right he told himself, that's probably why he had never heard from her. She had no way of knowing that he would die before hurting her ever again. "Emma, I . . ."

She cut him off with her fingers on his lips. When she was sure he wouldn't speak she slid her hand around to the back of his neck and he felt fire course through his blood. She came to him, her lips soft and warm on his. He heard the sound of voices just outside the door, someone saying they thought she went in there, but he didn't care. Holding her close he pressed his back against the door as much to prevent their entry as it was to keep his knees from buckling with shear pleasure. She tasted so good, felt so wonderful, the most exciting . . . ah, oh, he was distracted as the rest of his body began to respond. There was nothing he could do, it had been too long, but he noticed that she did not pull away.

She broke the contact as the din outside grew louder. "I think we're about to be discovered,: she whispered. "Did you give your car to the valet?"

"No, and I see a convenient window," he said drawing her to him again. He didn't really give a damn what was going on on the other side of the door.

"And I believe your place is not far away. What say we make a discrete exit?"

So she **had** kept track of him, he thought. "I'd follow you anywhere," he proclaimed and was rewarded with the brightest smile he had seen in years. They made it out just as they heard someone insert a key.

After showing Emma around his home, Steed poured them both a glass of champagne. "I think you'll find this a much better vintage," he said.

"How about a toast," Emma suggested.

Steed reached out and ran his hand along her cheek. He still couldn't believe she was there. "I think the occasion warrants one. What have you got in mind?"

"What I have in mind we can deal with later," she told him and the gleam in her eyes left little to the imagination. "But right now," she raised her glass and he his. "To Sam." She said.

That's when Steed did something he couldn't remember ever doing in his life. He dropped his glass.

They both looked at the broken glass and back at each other.

"**You know Sam**?" They both said at the same time.

"Short, brunette, undetermined eye color?" Steed described.

"Gambling problem?" Emma added.

"Dances with Churchill."

"What?" she asked

"American accent?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"That's the one. But how? When?" he asked.

"It was a few days ago," Emma explained, "I thought it was a dream."

"So did I." Steed replaced his drink and returned to Emma. "Well, whether it was a dream, a coincidence, or something we'll never know about," they once again raised their glasses.

"**To Sam.**"

Steed moved to her, gently brushed the hair from her left shoulder.

Her skin tingled at his touch. Oh how long she had missed that feeling. As his lips made their way up her neck to that sweet spot just behind her ear she said, "I want to hear about Churchill."

"No you don't," he whispered

The End

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